


Hyperborea

by rohkeutta



Series: Mesmeria [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Epilogue, Finland (Country), M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Stucky Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7674364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s snowing like shit, and people and cars are dark blurs in the fading light of the January afternoon. Sam almost misses sweating in Red Hook.</i>
</p><p>An epilogue to Mesmeria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hyperborea

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [Hyperborea (한글 번역)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249158) by [yuhnc27](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuhnc27/pseuds/yuhnc27)



> So I wasn't ready to let go of Sam's POV, especially since Mesmeria's second part was fully from Steve's POV. It resulted in another shameless ode to Helsinki. I'll stop soon. Hopefully.
> 
> Hyperborea is yet another song by CMX, but also in Greek mythology the mythical land "beyond the North Wind".
> 
> Thanks to sneaqui for a patient beta read, and Lys for being a delightfully receptive test reader!

The wind feels like it’s slapping tiny wet rags across his face. Sam hates it.

He’s reminded of last August, when he met Steve for the first time, in New York. This time, though, their meeting place is the front hall of Helsinki railway station, and Sam is freezing his balls off on the short walk across the square from his hotel.

It’s snowing like shit, and people and cars are dark blurs in the fading light of the January afternoon. Sam almost misses sweating in Red Hook.

“ _Come to Finland_ , he said,” he bitches quietly to himself, pulling his scarf up to cover his chin, wiping snow off his eyebrows. “ _It’ll be fun,_ he said. Christ Almighty, Wilson, why aren’t you in Honolulu?”

He’s got a job lined up in Berlin in two days, an easy one with absolutely zero evil overlords or undead lovers. He knew Steve and Barnes were spending the winter in Finland, and popping in to see them had seemed like a good idea when he was booking his flights.

It doesn’t feel like a good idea anymore. Finland fucking _sucks_.

The railway station is almost comically grand for a city so modest, but at least Sam doesn’t have any problems finding his way. The departure hall is crowded, people staring at the timetable boards with grim acceptance - most of the local trains seem to have been cancelled due to heavy snowfall. Sam weaves between the disappointed passengers and stops for a second to bask in the heavenly-smelling warmth in front of a coffee shop.

Steve and Yasha-- no, Barnes (Sam still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around that) are standing near the station’s front entrance. They’re both bundled up from head to toe, but it’s hard to miss a guy Steve’s size.

They’re laughing, Barnes’ gloved hand tucked into the crook of Steve’s elbow. They look tanned and happy, cocooned in their own bubble.

As Sam gets closer to them, Barnes leans in to say something to Steve, and Steve’s head snaps up towards Sam. As far as Sam noticed, Barnes didn’t even glance his way. Damn enhanced senses.

“Sam,” Steve greets, his eyes lighting up, and offers his hand for Sam to shake. He’s wearing a puffer jacket, and a ridiculous, pom pom beanie knitted with a stars and stripes pattern. He looks like a complete dork and happier than Sam’s ever seen him. “Good to see you. Found the place okay?”

“Yeah, sure, my hotel’s just across the-- uh... _Elielinaukio_ ,” Sam replies, mispronouncing the name horribly. “You guys couldn’t have decided to spend the winter in Bali?” he asks, wiping melting snow from his shoulders.

Barnes laughs, strips off the glove in his right hand, and extends his hand towards Sam, tentatively. The two of them are still figuring out their dynamic, after Yasha turned out to be Steve’s amnesiac Juliet.

Bucky had properly introduced himself to everyone during the debrief from hell. Natasha had fumed in silence, angry at herself for not fully connecting the dots between Yasha and Barnes; Bruce had taken a fifteen-minute break and a dose of something (probably illegal) to calm down. And Clint and Sam had had to pick their jaws up off the floor.

It had taken a lot of coffee and greasy pastries from a nearby bakery to get through Barnes’ terrible, horrible, really unpleasant story, redacted as it was. After that, debriefing the job had felt almost anticlimactic.

That whole debrief is near the top of Sam’s Most Awkward Gatherings Ever list, right below the first Thanksgiving after Sam came home from Jamaica, when he’d said grace for Riley, and his cousin had whispered loudly, “That’s gay, Sammy.”

“Hi Sam,” Barnes says. “Sorry, but Bali doesn’t have Santa Claus, so Steve refused to go there.”

“Hey, fucker,” Steve says, but he’s grinning widely. “You’re the one who almost face-planted into the slush and kissed the ground when we arrived here.”

Sam blinks. Jesus, how some genuine happiness can change a guy: Steve’s sassing and cursing casually, beaming like the fucking sun, looking years younger. It’s so different from his careful smiles last autumn that Sam feels a bit floored. He doesn’t think he’d ever fully realized what a miserable son-of-a-bitch Steve had been then.

Sam grins and shakes Barnes’ hand. The wedding ring on Barnes’ finger feels warm from the glove and body heat. He’s wearing a coat that looks more expensive than Sam’s car, and a huge, knitted tube scarf. It’s strikingly different from the faded anorak and sweatpants he’d worn as Yasha, but the casual elegance helps Sam to reconcile him with his well-dressed ghost.

Steve looks like the world’s hottest, most patriotic ski teacher next to James “I model Tom Ford in my free time” Barnes. It’s good that at least one of them has some fashion sense. Had Barnes’ beanie been emblazoned with the Soviet sickle and hammer, Sam would’ve turned right around and left these two losers to be embarrassing by themselves.

“Hi, Ya-- Barnes,” Sam says, mentally cringing at the misstep.

Barnes waves his hand, smiling. “Yasha, Barnes, Bucky - they’re all fine. I won’t send you to a gulag if you fuck it up. But I prefer Bucky.”

Sam laughs, taking in how close Steve and Bar-- _Bucky_ are standing, touching absently. “Bucky,” he says, testing the name. “Heard you made an honest man out of Steve. My condolences.”

Steve makes an indignant sound, and Bucky laughs again and casts a fond, mildly exasperated look at Steve. His eyes are twinkling. “Nah,” he says, “it’s alright. We’re both lifelong crooks; I don’t think marriage can change that. But thank you.”

The look Steve gives to him is soft and absolutely sickening. Sam’s pretty sure his teeth rot a little in his mouth. “Alright, Steve said something about a burger,” he says, clapping his hands together. “The place better be close or I’m hightailing back to my hotel to order some sweet-ass room service.”

Bucky smiles. “It’s not far, but we’ll take the tram.”

Sam blinks, dubious. It’s still snowing outside. “Are the trams even running in this weather? There’s, like, eight inches of snow on the ground.”

“It’s Helsinki,” Bucky dismisses. “The trams don’t stop unless some asshole parks on the tracks.”

“I even bought you a ticket,” Steve says smugly as he waves a small paper ticket, the little shit. “Come on. The 6 should be arriving soon.”

Bucky pulls his scarf up so that it covers half of his face; no wonder it’s so big. (There’s a voice in Sam’s head that whispers, “It’s full of secrets,” which he ignores.)

Bucky pushes the huge doors open easily, and they step outside.

It’s almost dark, and the streetlamps throw a yellow glow on the thick snow. People are hurrying around them, trying to be as quick as possible, but Steve and Bucky stroll, Sam trailing behind them.

They cross the street and squeeze under the packed tram stop shelter. It doesn’t keep the snow from blowing into their eyes, but at least it’s warm - in a penguin-esque, let’s-huddle-close-together way.

They don’t have to wait for long: one of the green trams clangs to a stop in front of them, the yellow number 6 barely visible through the snowfall. They wait until the passengers have filed out and hop on, relieved to get out of the weather.

It’s rush hour, and the tram is crowded, so they stand close to the doors, gripping the poles. It’s warm and incredibly quiet apart from the rattling of the tram; Sam’s never seen public transport so devoid of human noise.

“How have you been?” Steve asks, putting his arm around Bucky’s waist and rubbing Bucky’s hip idly with his thumb. The gesture looks so unselfconscious that Sam wonders if he realizes he’s doing it. That thousand-dollar topcoat _does_ look very soft, though. Bucky’s absently wiping snow from Steve’s jacket, but Sam has no doubt he’s listening.

It’s been long two months. After the job was over, Sam spent a week lying on his couch, staring at daytime television shows, too emotionally exhausted to do anything useful. The HYDRA job was the first Sam had done in almost two years, and the first he’d ever pulled without Riley. Add Steve’s problems and the whole emotional climax of the job, and the result was so distressing that Sam didn’t really know what to do with himself afterwards.

He felt like he’d just come back from war: each day was long and dull. He spent an awful chunk of time reading the leaked HYDRA files, borderline-obsessively looking for any mention of Barnes, even though he knew that only a physical copy of the Winter Soldier file existed.

But Sam doesn’t know how to tell Steve and Bucky all that without turning their dinner into sobfest, so he shrugs, sways a little on his feet as the tram turns a corner. “Not bad. I went down to Louisiana to stay with my gramps for a couple of weeks around Christmas. And Stark bought me a house. That’s the big news.”

Steve and Bucky laugh. “Yeah,” Steve says, grinning. “Stark likes buying houses for other people. When we first worked with Tony six years ago, he bought us the Brooklyn brownstone as payment.”

Steve and Bucky are the jetsetting type of dreamshare criminals. As far as Sam’s gathered, they have at least three apartments around the world. Sam has enough trouble dealing with one, although the thought of emigrating to a house in, say, Bangkok for the winter sounds appealing.

They get off the tram a couple of stops later, and brave the storm for a block before ducking through a door into a bistro. The restaurant is shabby in a slightly pretentious way, but it’s warm and dry inside.

Steve strips off his puffer and drapes it over a chair to claim them a table. Bucky takes Sam over to the bar and thrusts a menu into his hands.

“What is this place?” Sam asks, scanning the menu. There aren’t many options, but all of them sound delicious. His stomach rumbles a little, not satisfied by the airplane food he ate four hours ago.

“Bar 9,” Bucky replies and grins easily at the bartender, making some complicated hand gesture which probably means ‘Hi, awful weather.’ “You might wanna try the pulled pork burger.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “I might?

“Sam,” Steve says solemnly behind him, all looming height, his insane muscles bulging under his black sweater. His hair is cut in a more modern style, and he seems to be dressing his age these days. “If you don’t order the pulled pork, you’ll regret the day you were born.”

Bucky laughs, pulls off his beanie and right glove, and runs his hand through his hair. He’s kissed his hobo mop goodbye, and Sam’s suddenly experiencing some serious hair envy. “Steve’s right. The potatoes are the best part, though.”

Sam and Steve both end up ordering the pulled pork burger; Bucky gets pasta. Steve pays for all of their meals in cash, handling the foreign coins with familiar ease. Sam hadn’t even bothered changing currency after reading that his Visa would work pretty much everywhere. But Steve’s an old-fashioned, don’t-track-my-purchases type of a criminal, so it’s not a surprise that he’s got a wallet full of euros.

While Steve goes to get a pitcher of water, Sam and Bucky take a seat at their corner table. Bucky strips off his coat, folds it neatly up and puts it on the bench. He’s wearing a very nice navy sweater, and-- Sam does a double take, because apparently James fucking Barnes is wearing a pair of slim-fitting sweatpants with his Burberry topcoat and cashmere sweater. And he’s making it work. Sam just can’t wrap his head around this guy and his fashion sense.

“Who’s on the job with you?” Steve asks Sam when he returns with their water.

Bucky’s jiggling his leg under the table, and Sam feels almost ashamed by how much he takes comfort in the familiar fidgeting. It’s weird, missing a guy who’s sitting right in front of him - Sam liked Yasha a lot, his bone-dry sense of humor and how incredibly kind he was. While Bucky’s personality doesn’t seem very different, he’s still unfamiliar enough that any small display of Yasha bleeding through feels comforting.

“Clint and some guy named Lang.” Sam shrugs. “I’ve never heard of him. But Clint warned me that he talks a lot. Like, _a lot_.”

“He’s a forger,” Bucky says. “I’ve heard he’s pretty solid, as long as he doesn’t talk your fucking ear off.”

“Sounds like your kind of a guy,” Steve adds and smirks at Sam.

Who knew that Steve Rogers was actually an asshole. Sam almost wishes that he’d stayed a sad bastard.

Almost. Sam’s not a complete dick.

When the food arrives, Sam pokes dubiously at the roasted potatoes on his plate. “These don’t look like anything special,” he says to Bucky, who’s already digging into his pasta.

“Just taste them,” Bucky says, his mouth full. Has nobody around here heard of table manners?

Sam glances at Steve, who’s looking at Bucky like he’s the best thing since sliced bread and the zip-up fly. Like having bad manners is _cute_. Maybe it’s a sex thing.

Sam hopes it’s not a sex thing.

The potatoes are a gift from heaven. Burger’s superb too, but the potatoes. _The potatoes._

“Jesus wept,” Sam moans, not caring that now it’s him who’s speaking with his mouth full. “I want to marry these potatoes, what the _fuck_?”

Bucky smirks, smug and self-satisfied, and steals a couple of potato chunks from Steve’s plate. “Told ya.”

Sam hates him.

They don’t talk about Pierce or the Project Insight trial starting soon. When Steve accidentally says something about the job, Bucky’s jaw goes tight and tense, and he stops jiggling his leg, which makes the conversation halt awkwardly. They skirt around it; they talk about places Steve and Bucky have been to, Sam’s Air Force service, growing up in New York.

Bucky warms up again and participates in the discussion, but he seems a little more skittish, and Steve keeps putting his hand on his bouncing knee. They sit close together, and Sam wonders if they’re constantly touching just to remind themselves that they’re both there, miraculously back together.

Steve goes to order three mugs of black coffee which is light roast, and strong like road sludge. Bucky and Steve seem to enjoy it, which suggests that Finland has destroyed their taste buds. Sam drinks his, thinking resignedly that he might as well get used to coffee that tastes like battery acid and causes Tony Stark-level jittering, since he’ll have to submit himself to Clint’s shitty drip for the next two weeks.

\----

They leave the restaurant when Sam starts to yawn - the jetlag is finally catching up to him. Stepping outside into the cold air and never-ending snowfall feels a little like stepping into a pool of ice water. It feels even harsher after Bar 9’s warmth, and Sam shivers, pulls his scarf tighter around his neck.

“We’ll walk you back to your hotel from the stop,” Steve says as they board the tram, and pays for Sam’s ticket with his own travel card. “We need to go get some groceries anyway.”

They’re quiet on the way, watching the snowy city from the tram windows. It does look appealing - as long as Sam’s not outside to experience it. The old buildings look pretty like a postcard with the Christmas lights still on, and everything is hushed and sleepy under the blanket of snow.

“It was good seeing you,” Steve says, smiling, as he shakes Sam’s hand. “Tell Clint that he’s welcome to drop by after the job.”

They’re at the door of Sam’s hotel, and Bucky’s standing just behind Steve’s right shoulder. It looks so natural; the position must be something ingrained into their body language from Project Oneiros.

“Sure.” Sam nods and leans in to shake Bucky’s hand. “Welcome back, Barnes.”

“Godspeed, Wilson,” Bucky says dryly, but his pale eyes are laughing. “Give Clint a high-five for me.”

Sam watches them disappear into the snowstorm. They’re holding hands, Steve’s free hand swishing through the air like he’s explaining something exciting. He’s so much more animated now, like somebody turned him off slow motion and set him back to normal speed.

Sam’s happy for them, but he can’t help the envy that’s been gnawing at him since Steve - glowing like he’d just gotten spectacularly laid (which, in retrospect, probably was exactly what had happened) - had pushed Yasha forward and said, “Sam, I’d like you to meet James Barnes.”

It’s been almost two years since Riley. Steve held onto his grief for over four years, and was rewarded for it, in the end.

As he climbs into bed, Sam can’t help but think that if he keeps up hope then maybe, _maybe_ a miracle will happen to him too. He knows that it’s very far-fetched: he watched Riley get buried, threw his dog tags into the grave before it was filled.

 _Two more years_ , he thinks as he curls up under the thick duvet. _I’ll give myself two more years, and if a miracle doesn’t happen, hope can kiss my fucking ass._

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to yell at me on [tumblr](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com)!
> 
> The massive snowfall did happen on January 12th 2016 - at the end of [this article](http://www.hs.fi/kaupunki/a1452570679671) by our major newspaper are some photos.
> 
> If you ever find yourself in Helsinki, [Bar 9](http://bar9.net/english/) is located at Uudenmaankatu 9 in Punavuori neighbourhood.


End file.
